Skye O'Malley (59 page)

Ana, overjoyed to see her mistress, was brought back from retirement and, along with Polly, took over Constanza’s care. Niall knew that his wife would not dare misbehave here on Mallorca as she had in England. There was no reason to separate Constanza and Ana. He bought a small house in the hills above the city. The house afforded them the greatest privacy and had little room for entertaining.

Upon seeing his child, the conde turned furiously on Niall. “What have you done to her?”

Niall sighed, and led his father-in-law from the bedroom out onto the patio. “That she is ill is of her own making, Francisco. I tell you this not to hurt you but so you may understand her. Do not withdraw your love. There is a very strong chance that Constanza will not recover. I brought her home because she may die, and despite her perfidy I want her happy.”

“What has she done?”

“Constanza is a woman for whom the love of one man is simply not enough.”

At first the Conde was uncomprehending. But as his son-in-law’s words began to penetrate he grew red, then white with anger. “Just
what
is it you are saying to me, my lord?” he demanded.

“Constanza is a whore.”

“You lie!”

“To what purpose, Francisco? Ana will verify all I say. I sent Ana home because she could not control Constanza. Without meaning to, Ana aided her. Constanza caused such a scandal at the English Court that she was exiled from England permanently. I thought of
taking her home to Ireland, but she is badly diseased, cannot bear children now, and will probably die soon. I might have obtained an annulment of this marriage, Francisco. That would have embarrassed you. You are, after all, still King Phillip’s governor on these islands.”

“I am not surprised that the licentious English Court corrupted my child. Look at its bastard Queen, the daughter of the great whore-witch! England is as damned as its Court.”

“As an Irishman, Francisco, I’d like to agree with you. But I can’t. Elizabeth of England is young, but I sense greatness in her. She will lead her country well. Her Court is elegant and intelligent, witty and bright. And not particularly licentious, Francisco. Oh, there are some who play at lewd games, but when you think of carnality, the French Court is far ahead of any other in Europe.”

The older man’s stern face crumbled. Whom could he blame? “Then what am I to think, Niall? Is the fault mine? Where did I fail Constanza?”

“You didn’t, Francisco. It will take you time, as it did me, to understand that the fault is not in you. The fault is in Constanza, deep within her, eating outward like a maggot inside a perfect fruit. To the eye the fruit is beautiful, the skin firm, the color exquisite. Inside, however, is rot, and decay. Constanza herself is probably not to blame.”

Suddenly the Conde was weeping. “Ah, Blessed Mother, my poor child! My poor child!”

“Francisco, Constanza is dying and there are no other children. Have you ever thought of marrying again? I do not understand why you never did. Now, if you wish your line to continue, you must do it. You are not an old man, and there is time for you to sire sons.”

A surprised glance met Niall’s. “It is strange that you mention that,” he said. “After Constanza’s mother died I was left alone by the matchmakers. I suspect that was meant to give me time to grieve. But shortly thereafter I withdrew from society entirely, appearing only when it was necessary to my duties. After you married Constanza and left this island I became lonely, and I began to socialize again. I have recently received an offer of marriage with the orphaned granddaughter of an old friend of mine who lives here on Mallorca. I hesitate because the girl is only fourteen.”

“Could you be happy with her, Francisco? Is the match a good one?”

“Yes, I should be happy with Luisa. She is pretty, she is pious, and she has indicated she could be happy with me.”

“Then for God’s sake, man, marry her and get yourself some heirs!”

It took Constanza Burke two years to die, and in that time her new stepmother bore the Conde two sons and became pregnant with a third. Neither woman could abide the other. Luisa much resented her stepdaughter because Luisa’s children might have to share the Conde’s wealth someday with Constanza. She refused to believe that Lady Burke was dying.

Constanza believed that Luisa embodied criticism of her, particularly when her first half-brother arrived not even ten months after her father’s wedding day. The second was born eleven months later, and when he was but three months old Luisa announced that she was pregnant again. “Her fertility is a reproach to me,” Constanza wailed to Niall. “She delights in being the perfect Spanish wife in order to show the island that I am not! She is what neither my mother nor I could be—a mother of sons. God, how I hate her!”

Though Luisa was a perfect wife for the Conde, she was far too smug and stuffy for so young a lady. She was not the beauty her stepdaughter was, but she was quite pretty, with creamy gardenia skin that she zealously protected from the sun, smooth, blue-black hair that she wore neatly netted at the nape of her neck, and dark brown eyes that would have been beautiful if there had ever been any emotion to liven them.

Niall did his best to protect his wife from her stepmother. Whether Luisa was deliberately cruel or simply thoughtless, Niall could never be sure. Things finally reached a head one afternoon when Luisa said something—Niall never found out what it was—and Constanza stumbled from her bed shrieking, “Get out of my house, you damned fecund cow!” Then she collapsed. Ana ran to her mistress while Polly hustled the young Condesa from the room.

“Take your hands off me, girl,” snapped Luisa, attempting to break Polly’s hold on her arm.

“On your way, mistress, or I’ll put a curse on your unborn brat!” Polly squinted her eyes and twisted her mouth to give her threat serious meaning.

“Oh!” Luisa crossed herself and, wrenching free, fled out the door to her carriage.

Constanza was unconscious for several hours. Dr. Memhet was called, and shook his head. “She will not last the night, my lord. Your vigil is almost over.” The priest was called, and gave the dying woman extreme unction. He was a young priest, and the dying woman’s confession left him white and shaken. Never before had
he heard such evil from a woman’s lips. He fell wearily to his knees, hoping his prayers might help a little.

The Conde arrived, wisely leaving his wife at home, and then they all sat and waited for death to claim its victim. Ana wept softly while telling her beads. Polly wiped her mistress’s forehead free of icy perspiration. And Niall sat pensively by his wife’s bedside wondering, not for the first time, if it might have all been different if he had taken Constanza directly home to Ireland instead of exposing her to London.

The clock on the mantel ticked off the long minutes, its little bell clanging the passing hours in a bright, cheerful fashion that marked a direct contrast to the somber vigil. Then in that darkest and loneliest time of the night, between the hours of three and four, Constanza opened her violet eyes and gazed about her. Her glance lingered lovingly on the three people she cared for the most, her husband, her father, and Ana. They moved to her side instantly.

With great effort Constanza reached out a pale hand to touch her old duenna’s wet cheek. Ana’s plump shoulders shook, but she swallowed the grief that threatened to explode in her throat. Next Constanza looked to the Conde and smiled sweetly. Francisco Cuidadela felt suddenly old and lonely. With Constanza went his last link with her mother, the love of his life. He felt that a part of him was dying too.

Lastly Constanza turned her head toward Niall. “I am so sorry about all of it, Niall,” she said. “Remember that I truly loved you.”

“I know, Constanzita,” he said soothingly. “It was the illness, not deliberate.”

She looked vastly relieved then, as if he’d lifted a weight from her. “Then I am forgiven?”

“You are forgiven, Constanzita.” He bent down and lightly kissed her mouth. She sighed deeply and was gone. For a moment he stared down at her, remembering the lithe and lovely girl with the exquisite golden body and hair who had offered him her innocence in a flower field.
What had happened?
Gently he kissed her eyelids one final time and, turning, left the room.

Behind her he could hear Ana, finally free to vent her grief, wailing pathetically. He stood in the anteroom of his wife’s apartment for a moment, not quite sure what to do next. Then, quickly, he came to a decision. “I am going to sign over Constanza’s Mallorcan holdings to you, Francisco, all except a small house and vineyard, which I think Ana deserves. She should also be paid a pension of twelve gold pieces yearly. We will have the lawyers arrange that.
Polly wants to return to England. I want her to have a dowery of ten gold pieces, her passage, and that little string of seed pearls that was Constanza’s. I want the London town house for myself. But the rest is yours.”

“Please, Niall, my daughter is not yet cold, and you callously speak of dividing her possessions as the soldiers spoke at the foot of Christ’s cross.”

“Francisco, I have been living in Hell for two years now. I will do my final duty by Constanza and see to her burial, but I want to go home. Now. You will mourn in your fashion for a full year, but you have a wife and two sons by your side. I have no wife, no sons, and no time for Spanish conventions. I will see to the details of all arrangements today, for I intend sailing home as soon as I can.”

Niall Burke was true to his word. Constanza’s body was moved to the governor’s palace where it lay in state for two days. She had been dressed in her wedding gown, and the bier was banked by white gardenias with their shiny green leaves. Pure wax tapers had been placed at both her head and her feet. On the morning of the third day the funeral mass was sung in the Palma cathedral, where they had been wed. Constanza was buried with a minimum of fanfare on a hillside overlooking the sea, and that same afternoon a ship sailed from Las Palmas to London. Lord Burke and a mistress Polly Flanders were on it. On Mallorca, except for the few who had known them, it was as if Constanza Maria Alcudia Cuidadela and Niall, Lord Burke, had never existed.

Several weeks later, after an uneventful voyage, Niall saw Polly safely placed with a good family as a ladies’ maid, her precious dowry with a reputable banker. He longed to go south to Devon to see Skye, but after a drinking bout with some old friends at Court he knew he would probably not be welcome. The Southwoods, he learned, had not returned to Court but preferred the country. Only once a year did they come to London, after the New Year, in order to give their famous Twelfth Night masque. The beautiful Countess had presented her husband with a second son, John Michael, Lord Lynton. They were divinely happy, a most perfect couple.

Niall Burke left London for the west coast of England and sailed home to Ireland. Delighted to have his son back, but anxious for his happiness, the MacWilliam paraded before Niall every suitable available woman between the ages of twelve and twenty-five. He was thoroughly rebuffed.

“You’ve got to take a wife,” the old man argued. “If you won’t think of yourself, think of me. I need another heir!”

“Then you marry again! Twice I’ve wed because it was my duty and both marriages were disastrous. The next time I marry it will be for love and for no other reason!” shouted Niall.

“You’re talking like a child!” the MacWilliam yelled back. “Love indeed! Christ bear me witness, I’ve spawned me a fool for a son! No wonder Skye O’Malley married her fine English lord!”

“Go to Hell, old man!” snarled the heir to the Burke fortunes. And he slammed from the hall and spent himself riding his great red stallion at breakneck speed across the hills. Later he rested the foam-flecked animal on a cliff above the sea, and stood staring west across the blue waters. He knew the old man was right, damn him. But right or wrong, he’d not wed again except for love. Niall sighed. It was Skye he loved. He would always love her. He did not believe he could take another wife to his heart and his bed, not while Skye lived. Once he had tried to fool himself, and the result had been the destruction of an innocent girl. Poor Constanza, asking his forgiveness on her deathbed. “It was I who should have asked your forgiveness, my poor Constanza,” he said aloud. Then, mounting the stallion, he rode off to get gloriously drunk and dream futile dreams of a woman with hair like a dark night cloud and eyes the blue of the seas off the Kerry coast.

Skye was living a waking nightmare. After a sunny, warm March had come a cold, wet April. The disease had begun in the village of Lynmouth, the dreaded white throat sickness. It struck at children in particular, attacking one child, skipping its brother. Before she could isolate the children in the castle, Murrough O’Flaherty and Joan Southwood were ill.

Skye put the two children in the same room, the better to tend them. Having had the sickness as a child, she was not afraid of nursing the little ones, but she would allow none of the others near them. Geoffrey and the rest of the children were isolated in another part of the castle. Daisy volunteered to help her mistress. “I ain’t never caught the white throat,” she said, “though I’ve nursed its victims aplenty with my ma. She never caught it neither.”

“They have a natural immunity,” said Skye to her husband.

“What’s that?”

“The Moorish doctors believe that some people have a special defense against certain diseases while others survive a disease and never get it again even though exposed. They call this an immunity. Obviously Daisy and her mother are immune, though they have never had white throat.”

“And you are immune just because you did have white throat!” he said triumphantly.

“Yes,” she answered. “That is why Daisy and I will nurse Murrough and Joan.”

“What will you need?”

“Plenty of water, clean clothes, and oil of camphor.”

“I’ll see to it, my love.”

“How many have we lost in the village?”

“Nine, so far.”

“Jesu assoil their poor souls,” she said.

It was a long and frightening procedure, but fortunately neither child was stricken severely. They were weak and feverish and cranky. The dreaded dirty white patches appeared first on their tonsils, and then spread to the rest of the throat, but though they coughed constantly, that was the worst of it. Nevertheless Skye and Daisy were totally exhausted, and neither spared herself in the care of the children. The crisis was surmounted after a period of twenty hours during which the two women spent all their time placing and replacing hot camphor cloths on their little patients’ throats and chests. Finally the fever broke, the coughing eased, the white patches began to fade. The two women watched over the children for another day and night before they would admit they had beaten the disease.